


Zilch

by nadinehurley



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970's, Bad Parenting, Crack, F/M, Kid Fic, Recreational Drug Use, Retro Bullshit, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-08
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2018-01-15 01:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1285909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nadinehurley/pseuds/nadinehurley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One Direction was the American television answer to the Beatles in 1965; simultaneously long-haired beatnik weirdos and precious, squeaky clean children fit to be seen in Mom and Dad’s living room. They played a struggling rock band that mutated into an actual, real-life rock band that revolutionized the entertainment industry forever.</p><p>And the rest, as they say, is history. Now it's 1975, ten years after their sitcom first aired, and the TV execs want a reunion documentary.</p><p>Scandals, substance abuse, and questionable fashion choices abound. Their grownup lives have no business being put on television.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> upon clicking this story you may notice that there are years between chapters one and two being uploaded. "zilch" started as a joke between a friend and i in college when we were balls-deep in 1D obsession and as you can see, it petered off before it could even gain momentum.
> 
> harry's record coming out brought the boys back to the forefront of my mind for the first time in a long, long time. i love that fucking guy. his retro rock & roll bullshit inspired me to come back to this travesty and i think i'm going to actually try finishing it.
> 
> i don't know who out there this particular hodgepodge of things could possibly also resonate with, but i hope someone else out there gets a kick out of it.
> 
> xoxo

The phone is ringing. And ringing. And ringing.

Probably, this is what hell feels like. Probably, Louis has overdosed or something and this is his afterlife now. Incessant ringing.

His head is throbbing. He wonders if there was ever a chance of redemption. He didn’t lead a particularly pious life or anything, but surely he doesn’t deserve _this._

Louis cracks one eye open, and, okay. He’s not dead. Yet. This isn’t hell; it’s only his bedroom. But the slivers of early morning sun coming in through the curtains are assaulting his retinas, and his mouth tastes like something died in it, and the phone is still ringing. And ringing. And ringing.

He supposes he’d better get that, if only to make it stop, and tries to make it out of bed. His body resists every step of the way, and he nearly trips over a pair of crushed velvet bellbottoms which he suspects belong to the girl still passed out in his bed (is _she_ dead?), but finally. Finally, Louis makes it to the telephone, and the hellish ringing ceases. It feels like a victory.

“Hello?” he croaks.

“Good morning! Is this Mr. Tomlinson?”

It’s a woman whose voice sounds familiar, but he can’t place her. He does not try to wrack his foggy brain for the possible identity of this mystery caller, but he does contemplate hanging up the phone. _Is_ this Mr. Tomlinson? At this exact moment, he’s not entirely aware. Moments ago he wasn’t even sure if he was still living; how could he possibly be certain of his own identity?

“Louis Tomlinson’s dead. Deceased. An ex-human.”

“Excuse me?”

“Who is this?”

“This is Veronica at NBC, Mr. Tomlinson.”

“Ah, _Veronica._ To what do I owe the pleasure, love?”

“The network has a proposition. For you… and for the others.”

The girl in the bed is still out cold so there’s really not an audience, but Louis mimes strangling himself with the telephone cord anyway. For dramatic effect. It makes him feel a little better amid the bleakness of this hangover and this telephone conversation. The whole morning is a joke already, and he’s only been awake for what? Less than five minutes? Veronica's words make him cringe.

But the network gets what the network wants, regardless of Louis’ present state of well being, and the network wants a reunion documentary special.

It makes sense, really. It's been about ten years since the show aired on NBC. Of course they're due for a reunion. And a reunion _documentary,_ at that. Where are they now? Does America really want to know? (Probably not, but it’s all about capitalizing on Frankenstein’s pop band anyway, never mind what the public might actually want to hear about).

See, in 1965, [an experiment in rock and roll music gone totally awry](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Monkees) shook the world to its core, and things really never go back to being the same after something like that.

One Direction was the American television answer to the Beatles; simultaneously long-haired beatnik weirdos and precious, squeaky clean children fit to be seen in Mom and Dad’s living room. They played a struggling rock band that mutated into an actual, real-life rock band that revolutionized the entertainment industry forever.

They split in 1970, two years after the show was cancelled, and things really never go back to being the same after something like that either. The last five years have been one glorious media trainwreck after the other, for all involved parties.

Louis can see this documentary now, though it's a little fuzzy through the television static in his head. It’s going to be crap. America’s sweethearts are all grown up now, and all fucked up to boot. Where are they now? Balls-deep in scandalous piles of cocaine and scandalous scandals with underage groupies, mostly. Niall’s doing country rock with [Plaster Caster Palvin](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cynthia_Plaster_Caster), now. Harry’s just come back from soul-searching in India.

Can they put that stuff on television? Louis agrees to Veronica’s grating proposal from NBC, if only to see how it plays out. He’s envisioning something really hideous going down, potentially involving a fist fight or two. He’s hoping for some fist fights, in any case.

Veronica says someone will get back in touch with him to arrange a meeting about this whole affair when they’ve tracked down everybody else, and Louis is finally able to hang up the phone. A wave of relief washes over him, but the feeling is short-lived because the girl in his bed is stirring and that’s almost never a good thing (although he’s pleased to see that she too managed to survive the previous night in mostly one piece). She looks about sixteen. And to add insult to injury, he can’t remember what _her_ name is either. Louis is losing his shit this morning.

The girl looks a little bewildered when they make eye contact from across the room, but they both pretend like nothing is out of the ordinary here. Because… well. At this point, waking up with strange high school girls is absolutely not out of the ordinary for Louis Tomlinson. He feels like an ass though, because there is the sinking feeling at the back of his mind that this particular high school girl is significant in some way. Significant like he should at least know what her name is.

“It’s early,” she says, choosing now to look at the clock on the wall behind Louis’ head instead of maintaining her eye contact with Louis himself.

“Yeah. It... is that,” he mumbles, equally as eloquent. She smiles. Who _is_ she?

The girl moves from underneath Louis’ sultry silk bedsheets to collect her clothing off of the orange shag carpet, and she does this with far more grace than any person with a hangover who is about to walk of shame her way out of a washed-up pop star’s bedroom should have. She slides on a dress from where it was discarded near the foot of the bed, and Louis looks at the floor. If she got here in a dress, where the _fuck_ did the velvet bellbottoms he tripped over come from?

 

-

 

The first meeting with NBC is a disaster, which was anticipated by everyone except, possibly, NBC.

To start with, Liam is not in attendance. More specifically, Liam is missing. He might be gone forever because no one is sure of his whereabouts, save for a stripper he was involved with for a time who says she thinks he could be in “Ontario or something”. Helpful. It’s hard to reunite One Direction when one out of five is anonymously traipsing around the Great White North somewhere. Or dead. Where are they now? Lost and/or dying in the Canadian wilderness, evidently. America won’t be pleased to hear about this one.

Barbara could fill in for Liam though, Louis imagines, and he considers suggesting it when they’re told of his status as being M.I.A. Plaster Caster Palvin is always around and has always been around anyway, even long before her relationship with Niall. She’s here with him this afternoon, because the [John-and-Yoko](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Lennon#Yoko_Ono)-do-[Graham-and-Emmylou](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gram_Parsons#Solo_career_and_touring_with_Emmylou_Harris_.281970.E2.80.9373.29) freakshow is apparently very real and ongoing and not just some kind of weird act.

He can’t speak for the others, but Louis genuinely likes Barbara. Probably she would be just as good of an addition to the group as Liam. Maybe even _better_ than Liam. They could always count on her to show up, at the very least, and word on the street is she does have some talents outside of making plaster casts of rock star penises. That, or people only listen to the [Levitating Taquito Siblings](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Flying_Burrito_Brothers) because the country rock outfit was founded by Niall-Horan-Of-One-Direction. Most likely the latter, but either way, Barbara is accountable and her carcass is not presently being feasted on by Bigfoot and his family somewhere in a Canadian forest. She’s a perfect stand-in, honestly. People probably wouldn’t even be able to tell the difference.

When Barbara leans over to whisper something in Niall’s ear, Louis decides to speak his mind because it’s not like anything else important is going to get accomplished today.

“What do you suppose we do if Liam’s just, you know, gone forever?” he asks, fidgeting with a pencil he found laying on the wooden conference table in front of him.

Harvey, one of the executives from NBC, looks unimpressed. “How do you mean, son?”

“Well, I mean… what if he’s gone forever? Or what if you find him, and he won’t do the show? Where do we go from that?”

“We’ll find him,” Harvey says sternly, like they’re still children. He doesn’t look 100% sure about his sentiment, however. “And on the off chance that we don’t, we carry on without him.”

“Didn’t one of the Monkees leave, back in the day?” Zayn asks.

“Did that go well for the Monkees? I think Barbara should replace him.” Louis points at her with his pencil. “Are you up for it?”

Barbara giggles behind her hands. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re practically a member of the band anyway, right? You’re always here. And Liam is… well, he’s not. He’s not here. And you’ve even got musical experience now! Where’s the downside?”

“There’s not one. You’re a genius, Lou,” Niall compliments. Louis shrugs his shoulders, and Harry bites his lip thoughtfully.

“I don’t think we should do it without Liam,” he says, brows furrowed like he’s concentrating hard on the matter at hand. “We’re a group, aren’t we? With all due respect, Barbara, One Direction was the five of us. It’d be wrong to leave him out… don’t you think?”  

“You guys are sweethearts.” Barbara winks at Louis, who returns the gesture exaggeratedly. “But I don’t see how you can just... _lose_ somebody like that if you need him so badly. Isn’t he your friend? It’s kind of pathetic.”

“Who are you, again?” Harvey asks, clearly exasperated with the derailing of his highly serious and professional business meeting.

“Oh, _please._ You know, I bet some high school girl could dig him up before any fancy office people could.”

“Unless he’s dead,” Louis chimes in.

“Right, unless he’s dead… but even then. Why don’t you find some… some cute little teenybopper who wants to touch his body and send her on a mission? She could find Liam for you, I guarantee it.”

Barbara arches her eyebrows. There is silence, eventually broken by Louis and Niall’s hysterical laughter. Niall very nearly falls off his chair onto the ugly, geometric office carpet. Did she really just say that to an NBC executive? The boys were hardly angels in their heyday (far from it), but generally one would try to keep talk of groupies out of conversations with the guys in charge. Louis would marry Barbara, probably, if she and Niall weren’t on the way there themselves. He wants her to join One Direction _right now._

“Excuse me, gentlemen, that’s enough--”

When everyone has settled down again and Harvey has rolled his eyes so hard that Louis is fairly certain he can see his own brain, Niall says, “she’s probably right, y’know.”

And she is.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis thinks about the last 10 years. Another meeting at NBC goes terribly south.

If there  _ were _ to be a One Direction documentary - a real one, not whatever made-for-TV saccharine horse shit NBC was going to splice and dice together in the cutting room - it would not be a pretty picture. The last ten years, in many ways, had been unkind; and anything noteworthy that had happened was certainly not fit to be seen by the masses. They were hardly young kids any more, and this was hardly Kansas.

Harry had spent the last two months in Rishikesh, doing psychedelics and writing music and  _ finding himself _ , whatever that meant. Zayn could frequently be found snorting cocaine off of models’ bodies and making questionable comments to the tabloids about said models, and their bodies. Niall wore a cowboy hat damn near every day of his life and was two inches away from married to a woman whose primary career before their relationship had been making plaster casts of famous genitalia. Liam was in Canada, and definitely missing, and possibly dead. Louis had been divorced almost three years now, and hadn’t seen his children in about that long. He was following Zayn right down the warpath of substance abuse and fast women, and they were all getting too old for this sort of thing.

You certainly couldn’t put their real, grown-up lives on television.

Louis can’t stop thinking about it. He is plagued by whatever broken bits of his conscience are left, and it is  _ shit.  _ It has been so easy to disregard his sordid history with One Direction when he has been so completely absorbed in his sordid  _ present  _ with Zayn, and all the girls and drugs his TV money could buy. But now with the execs poking their noses where they don’t belong, all he can think about is his life before; the TV show when they were all so young and stupid, and the times before that when he was even younger, and even more stupid.

He had come to the States at the tender age of 19, with his wife Briana and their son, Freddie. Brianna was 17. The baby had just hit 15 months. It was 1964, and if the Beatles could do it so could Louis. This was what he reasoned with himself, anyway.

He had dropped out of school to help support his Mum and sisters after her second husband had left them all in the dust. He had always loved performing, and often spent evenings at the pub where he worked as a server playing piano and singing to the patrons. It may not have been the Cavern Club, but people liked him enough that he felt he could maybe do the music thing full time, instead of also slinging fish and chips during the daylight hours.

So they went to America. And his Mum had cried, and the girls had cried, and he and Briana had cried their fair share too. But they were so full of dreams, and hope, and maybe something like love, too.

In reality, Louis and Briana had just been hormonal teenagers, but it sounded better in his head when he couched it in flowery, romantic bullshit like Harry would. Like maybe he had loved his ex-wife once, instead of just being 18 and horny, and scared into a shotgun wedding when they found out she was up the spout, as it were.

John Lennon had a kid. He had married his teenage sweetheart. All the magazines talked about it, and all the girls in England (and now America too, and probably elsewhere) were likely sending her death threats constantly. Louis did not consider this when he thought of John Lennon’s home life. Only how sweet it was to see pictures of John and Cynthia and Julian. A family man with a rock and roll band. A guy who had it all.

Briana stayed at home with Freddie while Louis looked for work. He hit the pavement during the day, auditioning for labels and at Los Angeles nightclubs, then went back to waiting tables at night. Briana had always wanted to be a hairdresser, and took to doing hair in their cramped, two room apartment to make extra cash while Louis was out there chasing his  _ dream. _

They were broke and a little desperate, but so  _ hopeful  _ and so  _ in love _ . Just thinking about it now makes Louis want to barf. He joined a band, kept honing his skills, and worked like a dog. At the time he thought his wife was proud of him, but as a jaded old person he realizes she may actually have resented him for it.

And then there was the advertisement.

Louis remembers the day only vaguely now. Briana was rinsing bleach out of a woman’s hair over the kitchen sink, and he had Freddie babbling incoherently on his lap while he poured over the classifieds. Freddie was practically a toddler now - he was getting huge - and Louis bounced him on his knee when his eyes fell on those fateful words.

**FOUR INSANE BOYS…**

The ad popped out at him, big and bold, from the pages of the  _ Hollywood Reporter _ . Someone was casting a television show about musicians, and the fact that they were looking for “insane boys” and “Ben Frank’s types” really piqued Louis’ interest. With Freddie balanced somewhat precariously on his legs, he took the pen from behind his ear and circled the advertisement.

“What d’you think of that, then?” he asked Freddie, who squealed in response.

And that was that. He didn’t know if anything would really come of it - television shows flopped all the time, after all - but it was worth a shot. Before he dropped out of school Louis had enjoyed being in plays and musicals even though he knew the boys on the football team were always calling him a fairy behind his back. He could take a crack at acting again. Besides, the Tomlinsons were hardly living the American dream and he had hoped so badly that he would be able to send money to his Mum and the girls by now.

So he went to the casting call. Somehow the four boys the advertisement called for mutated into five, and Louis became one of them, and the rest was history.

Now he is here, in his bed, sandwiched between Zayn and some girl thinking about these things that feel like a lifetime ago. He has no idea what time it is, and he hopes he didn’t have a threesome last night - although, it would probably make a nice bit for the reunion special. Maybe they could call the whole thing off if he burst into Harvey’s office and professed his undying love for Zayn.

His mind keeps wandering back to his son, and the daughter they’d had halfway through the taping of the TV show’s second season. She was named Jo, for his now deceased mother. They’re both in the double digits now. He does not think of his Mum’s ex-husbands and how his relationship with his family may or may not look like theirs now, on some level.

It’s amazing, how quickly things happened when the universe thought Louis had stopped paying attention.

The girl in the bed stirs slightly. It’s late and the room is dark and Louis is probably still fucked up on something but he thinks it is the same girl from the day Veronica at NBC had called and turned his life into an even bigger shit show than it was to begin with.

He still doesn’t know what her name is.

Zayn is snoring somewhat loudly, his back to Louis. The girl opens her eyes blearily, perhaps because of this.

Louis doesn’t notice at first because he is staring at the ceiling thinking about his kids, about Doncaster, about how John Lennon was notorious for treating Cynthia and Julian like hot garbage and left them for some avant-garde artist called Yoko Ono whom he probably also treats like hot garbage. Louis will never get over that he, like,  _ knows  _ John Lennon now, even though it turned out that he’s a pretty terrible person in real life.

He feels like he is being watched, and sure enough, there is the Girl, gazing at him from under long, dark lashes. She looks half asleep, and probably too young to be here.

Louis doesn’t say anything, and wonders how many more times this exact thing is going to happen to him. The Girl, whoever she is, doesn’t say anything either, for awhile.

There is marginally uncomfortable silence periodically broken up by Zayn’s inhuman snoring. In bed with some kind of person-polar bear hybrid and a teenage girl. What a way to live one’s life. Louis ponders if it would be easy to fake his own death, right here in the middle of them.

“I’m going to go put some coffee on,” the Girl finally says.

Louis remains completely silent. Maybe he can feign catatonia at the very least, if he tries really hard. He is a famous actor, after all. Or he was once, anyway. He can’t remember the other times he’s slept with this mystery girl but it has to have been quite a few if she knows where he keeps the kettle.

He hears her sit up and shuffle out of the room, but keeps his eyes trained on the ceiling. He slows his breathing - to make himself seem more lifeless, of course - and has almost fallen back to sleep when the sound of the bedroom door creaking open again startles him awake.

It’s still dark outside, and the late-night/early-morning lights of the city cast a strange, bluish glow onto the Girl from the cracks in the blinds. She stands in the doorway in her underwear, holding two mugs of coffee. She moves across the room and sits back on the bed cross-legged, placing one of the mugs on Louis’ bedside table as she does so.

“Are you still awake?” She whispers.

Zayn lets out a loud honking sound. Louis tries to keep up his catatonic charade.

“I brought you a coffee. I think I remembered how you like it.”

He does not want to - hell, he cannot - have a conversation with this strange girl whose name he never can seem to conjure up for the life of him. He doesn’t want to be an asshole, either, which is why death (be it real or imaginary) is the only feasible escape he’s got.

“Come on… sit up. I can see your eyes, they’re open.”

Damn it all. She’s got him there.

“Good morning, love,” he finally says. He doesn’t avert his eyes from the ceiling.

“Sit up,” she repeats, but there’s a hint of a smile in her voice. “It’s gonna get cold.”

Sighing in defeat, Louis does as he’s told. He shifts up on his elbows and the weird, sultry, silk bed sheets pool around his hips. He is pleased to see, at least, that he has afforded himself the dignity of waking up with a pair of pants on. Things could always be worse, he thinks to himself, halfway between bitter and genuinely optimistic.

“How did you sleep? How do you feel?”

Louis merely grunts in response, but he is grateful for the mug she slips into his hands.

“Not so hot, huh? Need an aspirin or anything? I feel like I got hit by a truck.”

She is grinning when she says it, though.

Louis has a few flashes of the previous night - himself, the Girl, a club, some other girls, T. Rex playing loudly in the background. He grimaces, finally alert enough to fully appreciate his hangover.

“How old are you?” he asks. It’s inappropriate, he knows, but it’s the only thing he could think to say that made any kind of logical sense. Anyway, he  _ doesn’t  _ know how old she is… so there’s that.

The Girl crinkles her nose like she can’t tell if he’s pulling her leg or not. He isn’t, of course, but maybe he can pretend like he is. His acting chops are rusty but they certainly are coming in handy this morning.

“Oh, yikes,” she says, and sips her coffee. “You sure you’re okay? We’ve just had my birthday, Louis. The big 1-9, remember?”

Louis breathes an audible sigh of relief and tries to pass it off, poorly, as a yawn.

“You kept saying it was the worst age to be because it’s the first one after 18, and nothing important happens after you turn 18.”

“Ah, right, yes, that does sound like something I would say.”

Maybe the night before  _ had  _ been a birthday party. He’s not able to do much with the flashes of the night he’s getting but he knows someone took pictures and he knows someone, somewhere will be publishing them as soon as humanly possible. He tries to bring himself to care. He cares that she’s of age, at least - he has  _ some  _ tact, after all. But he does some mental math through his hung-over brain fog and realizes, in horror, that she’s only 5 or 6 years older than his kid.  _ One  _ of his kids.

It sends him spiraling back into the existential dread from before. Should he call his kids - call Briana?

He shudders at the thought, then flops back down on the bed with a groan. He shoves his coffee mug toward the Girl unceremoniously. Zayn continues to sleep through it all.

_ What time is it? _

“Everything okay? You’re not looking so hot,” the Girl observes, now double-fisting both mugs. She knits her dark brows together as she peers down at Louis’ face. He looks up at her but doesn’t really see her… and what’s her name again? If he can calculate her age in relation to the ages of his moderately estranged children, surely he can muster it from somewhere inside himself. Her name, her name...

Some of the haze in his brain dissipates. Her name.

It’s Eleanor.

“I’m alright. Didn’t your mother teach you that it’s impolite to stare?”

She giggles.

“Go back to bed, Nell.”

“Alright, Louis. Whatever you say.”

She gets out of bed again, presumably to put the mugs away. If she does indeed go back to bed, Louis doesn’t know because he conks back out almost as soon as she’s out the door.

 

-

 

The second meeting with NBC is another disaster - which was again predicted by all involved parties besides those at the network itself - but this time it’s for different reasons.

For one thing - they’ve found Liam. He’s still not present, but they’ve found him. And that means this thing is truly going to happen whether anyone wants it to or not. Why let sleeping dogs lie when you can wring them dry for all the money they might still be worth instead?

That’s how the expression goes, isn’t it?

“Cher found Liam?” Niall asks incredulously, scrunching up his face.

They are all seated in the wood-paneled conference room at NBC once more. There’s a gaudy, blue Tiffany lamp hanging above the massive conference table, casting a strange glow across the room that makes it feel almost seedy, somehow. No one looks particularly thrilled to be here, so it’s at least interesting that his highness Harvey has thrown this particular wrench into things.

“ _ The  _ Cher? Like Sonny and Cher, that Cher?”

“No, it’s Cher _ Lloyd _ , you twat,” Louis reminds him. “You’ve just said that - haven’t you, Harvey?”

The story goes that Cher Lloyd, former child star turned singer and socialite was at a party after some gig in Canada, and there he was, just like that. Liam Payne, in full shaggy, living-off-the-grid glory. He had once been the most clean-cut looking of all of them - even when the “Summer of Love” happened and things got really weird really fast. He was bearded and unkempt, Cher had explained to someone at the network, but very much alive and most importantly, in relatively good health.

(Cher had worked with NBC for a time, as a teenager, on a couple of their shows - one about surfing and one about nuns. She had remained close with the members of One Direction after her departure from television, but because she had a connection with both parties she had been told to keep an eye out for Liam along with other former television personalities that had ties to the band.)

(Louis could kill her for blowing the whistle on Liam like that, but that’s neither here nor there.)

“She’s a good girl, that one,” Harvey continues gruffly. “Anyhow, we’ve contacted him directly now that we know where he is. Obviously, Liam’s not here with us today, but he has agreed to do the documentary. So we’re  _ doing this.  _ Do you understand?”

Still talking to them like they’re the sparkling, wide-eyed teenagers that they haven’t been in almost a decade. Classic Harvey.

“Loud and clear, mate,” Zayn says quietly, coolly.

“We’ll start shooting interviews as soon as Liam gets to LA.”

“And… when does he get here, exactly?” Harry asks.

“Next week. Thursday, I believe. So get your shit together, and keep it that way. Veronica’ll let you know when we get the call times sorted out.”

The four men and Barbara, who is here, again, look at him with a bored sort of expectancy. Was there not more to say? Did this man really call them all here for something his secretary could have told them over the telephone?

Harvey, looking sort of pleased that no one has spat any smart alecky remarks at him yet, continues his spiel. “We are, of course, gathering others to do some talking heads as well. Cher’s agreed - she was, y’know, here for most of it, so she’s a good fit. Johnny claims he’s going to come around, the fucker. You know he’s been in Florida this whole time?” he scoffs as he refers to his co-producer and the other “mastermind” behind the One Direction television show. “Uh, some of the gals from wardrobe… Leeroy and Marcel, of course… Barbie, is it? You’ll do one, won’t you?”

“It’s Barbara.” Her accent is thick with irritation, just in those two words.

Harvey does not respond to this, clearly trying to remember the names of the rest of his lackeys.

“D’you get ahold of Pez?” Zayn asks during the pause.

“ _ Who? _ ”

“Pez.  _ Perrie.  _ My ex wife,” he elaborates easily. “I heard you were asking round for her number, like. That kinda thing comes back usually, you know.”

“We weren’t trying to be discreet, Zayn. We were trying not to bother you! We know how it is. Nobody’s trying to pull the wool over anyone’s eyes here. Is that clear?” He does not wait for an answer from anyone else at the table before barrelling on full speed ahead. “And that reminds me, Lou -”

Louis arches his eyebrows. He has no idea where this could possibly be headed, but he already dislikes the sound of it. “Yes?”

“We’ve had the girls working their tails off, but between tracking down Liam and everyone else, well… you know how it is,” Harvey continues, almost parroting his earlier statement. “We’re trying to get Ana for the documentary, but Veronica can’t get ahold of her. Do you think you could reach out?

It’s phrased like a question but it sounds more like a demand. It puts a foul taste in Louis’ mouth.

“It’d be a huge help to us.”

“Ana?  _ My  _ ex wife?”

“Yes, that Ana.”

“What would you want that for? Hell - why’d you want to get Pez on? I thought this film was about the show - not our former spouses!” It comes out as more of a sputter than he wants it to.

“Listen, Louis - it’s not just about the show. It’s a One Direction  _ reunion  _ special. Perrie and Ana were always around - it’s like getting the whole gang back together, y’know, so to speak. Besides - remember all those magazine articles about her and your kids! The fans loved Ana!”

“They did not,” Louis protests hotly. “The  _ magazines  _ loved her because we looked like we were playing Happy Families all the time. The fans  _ hated her.  _ They sent her  _ death threats.”  _ He pauses here, for emphasis. “Teenagers - fucking children - sent Ana death threats. I’m not calling her. She took the kids back to England. I’m not dragging them back into this shite.”

He’s standing up now, looking Harvey square in the eyes. And what was he - a fucking psychic? Louis had entertained the idea of calling Briana off and on since the night in the bed with Zayn and Eleanor. But their split had been messy and communication with both her and his children had been sporadic at best in the last three years. He sent her child support and tried to call on Freddie and Jo’s birthdays, but to say they were on bad terms was the understatement of the year.

Brianna would never agree to do the show. Trying to get her involved would be not unlike pulling someone’s teeth out one by one with a rusted pair of pliers; damn near impossible and far more trouble than it was worth. Besides that, Louis would be damned if he let his kids get tied up in this particular circus. He would be the first to admit he had become a pretty shit father once One Direction took off, but he owed them at least that - to keep them out of it.

Harvey narrows his eyes at Louis.

“Would you prefer we addressed  _ that _ in the show then, Louis? Your failed marriage?”

“I’m sorry, is that a threat?”

“It’s not a threat,” Harvey insists. “I can’t sell that broken family shit. Yeah, yeah, everyone in the world knows you and Ana split up but I’m not about to touch that with a ten foot pole, and I know Johnny’s not going to either. But we gotta get her in here - it makes it look all nice and tied up, y’see? That’s what the fans want to see - everyone back together and playing nice.”

Ever sincere, Harry furrows his brows and interjects, “but Harvey, he’s got a point - that’s not how things are at all.”

“I need both of you to can it -  _ now.  _ We’ve done all the paperwork -  _ the contracts,  _ we’ve found Liam, we’re  _ trying  _ to find Ana, and then we’re making a damn movie, people.”

“I’m not going to say this again…” Louis is still standing, undeterred by the orders just spat at him. “I’m not bringing Ana into this. She’s not going to do it, and neither of us wants to expose the kids to any more bollocks than they already have been. Alright?”

“We’ll let her discuss that herself with Veronica and the gals - okay, Lou?”

Louis frowns. He does not sit back down.

“I think this has been enough for today,” Harvey concludes, looking past Louis entirely. “And remember: we’ll have the girls be in touch with call times, so keep your ears peeled for that phone call.”

Harvey stands up and begins collecting his belongings. Shoving some haphazardly stacked papers into his briefcase, he adds on, “we’ll see you gentlemen next week then!”

Nobody makes a move to extract themselves from the uncomfortable, plastic conference room seats. Louis is still standing up awkwardly, his hands planted firmly on the dark-stained wood in front of him.

Harvey looks at his watch, exasperated.

“We’ve got another meeting in here in 15, people. I’m gonna need you all to skedaddle.”

And on that note he is finally gone, bustling off to do whatever it is these big time television producers do all day. The others get their own belongings sorted and follow in his tracks shortly. Louis lights a cigarette on his way out of the room.

When they are all finally out of NBC’s clutches - however temporarily - they exchange strained pleasantries in the parking lot. The meeting had ended on such a strange note, and the air was still tense.

Louis hadn’t meant to cause a scene. He was ultimately trying to avoid an even bigger scene, but ended up throwing himself under the bus in the process. Hadn’t he signed onto this project to watch some fist fights take place? Those fist fights were not supposed to be between him and Harvey, or worse yet - him and Brianna. He wanted his money back, so to speak.

“Well, mates, I’d best be off,” he finally says, lighting another cigarette and stepping onto the sidewalk. “We’ll see you next week though, yeah? Won’t that be fun?”

He grimaces and steps onto the pavement.

“Oi, Tommo!” Niall calls out before he can get too far. He looks fucking ridiculous in a purple western shirt with cacti embroidered on the collar. “We’re going to go to the Rainbow tomorrow night, if you’d like to join. We can talk proper shite without the suits getting involved, huh? You two as well.” He looks to Harry and Zayn. That Niall, ever the charmer even in the face of painful business interactions. “It’s been a long time.”

“Yeah, alright. See you tomorrow night then, lads. And Barbara, of course.”

“Of course,” she responds with a smile.

With a final salute to his former bandmates, Louis traipses across the parking lot and gets into his car. He wonders, only marginally alarmed, if this new contract with NBC was not in fact a pact with Satan in disguise.

As he drives away, he ponders what he might actually take from the Devil in exchange for his soul rather than a chance to look like an ass on national television.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uh. clearly i started writing this story in 2014, when the world was different and one direction hadn't broken up and they all had different girlfriends than they do now. so just, like, bear with me please. this thing is a clusterfuck. let's all just go with it.
> 
> xoxoxo


	3. Chapter 3

To say that it had been a long time since Louis had  _ really  _ spent time with his former bandmates would be an understatement. He and Zayn were notorious for wreaking havoc on the Sunset Strip and partying with the best of the day’s hard rockers, but beyond that… it was quite the occasion for them to all be spending time together again. He wished Liam could be with them for the evening’s cavorting at the Rainbow Bar, as they had always been close during their tenure as One Direction, but alas he had not yet returned from the Great White North. They had lost touch in the last few years, so it was at least nice to hear that he was alive and well, and would be joining them all in sunny Los Angeles soon enough.  
  
_ This is going to be fucking weird,  _ Louis finds himself thinking as he gets ready to meet the lads, and Barbara (who, at this point, is more or less one of the lads herself). He looks in the mirror and scrubs a hand over his scruffy face. He has been sporting quite the mustache these days, as is in fashion, and wonders if it makes him look older or younger. He does not dwell on the fact that he’ll be turning 30 this Christmas. Or on the 19 year old he’s fucking.  All day long he has been repeatedly willing the universe not to let the twats at NBC find his ex-wife’s contact information - she doesn’t need to get involved in this great reunion project for a myriad of reasons, one of which is definitely named Eleanor.

Was he going to turn into one of those lecherous old people who gives their teenage children a teenage stepmother? He shudders at the thought.

Louis gives his outfit a once-over in the mirror -  _ are leather pants too much?  _ \- and picks up the marijuana cigarette he had rolled earlier and then immediately abandoned on the top of his bureau. After rummaging in the top drawer for longer than necessary he finally produces a lighter and makes quick work of the joint between his fingertips.

Things  _ would  _ be weird tonight. That much was a given, but at least now he was equipped to deal with it. The pot doesn’t really do much for him - not any more - but it’s enough to take the edge off.

Once upon a time, after Harvey and Johnny had first cobbled together their precious pop band, the boys had gotten along famously. They weren’t nearly as chummy and sweet in real life as they were on television, but they were all young and rambunctious and sharing in an experience few others had (except for perhaps the Monkees, whose members they also got on well with despite their shows constantly having to compete with each other). They spent so much time together they more or less  _ had  _ to like each other, or things could have gotten ugly much sooner than they did.

Things didn’t get ugly until the television show’s bitter end in 1967; the episodes were getting avant-garde and weirder every week, and they weren’t going to be renewed for a third season. And where did one go after that? If they hadn’t been “real” musicians before they started putting out records they certainly were after the show’s demise, and they each were demanding more and more creative control all the time. They managed to tour and release a few more albums through 1969, but by that point they were all at each other’s throats. It was the way of many pop bands at that time, and just about everything else for that matter. The decade that had started out bright and shining with all that the Kennedys and the Beatles had to offer had crashed and burned with the Vietnam war and the Manson murders. Zayn had put many holes in many walls, and punched Niall in the throat once. Harry cried in the studio pretty regularly - about the war, about the band’s spats, about Niall getting punched in the throat - because of course he did, eternal flower child that he was. The last One Direction record had been composed mostly of Tomlinson-Payne collaborations that had never quite found a place in their earlier releases. It was a commercial flop.

And then the 1960’s were over, taking One Direction with them.

And now they’re here.

The war in Vietnam is finally,  _ finally  _ over. Charlie Manson and his girls are behind bars for the Tate-LaBianca murders. Four out of five members of One Direction and Plaster Caster Palvin are crammed together in a booth at the back of the Rainbow Bar & Grill for the first time in what might well be an eternity.

And sure enough, it  _ is _ weird.

To Louis, it feels like a bad blind date. No one is sure what to say. The gusto they all had within them when standing up to the suits together, just like the good old days, has vanished mysteriously. So they exchange pleasantries with a kind of forced camaraderie, humming and hawing about nothing of real merit while they sip strong drinks. Being on this bad date, after all, Louis considers asking about their favorite foods and films. Perhaps they should play an icebreaker game? Why had this seemed like a good idea, again?

The Rainbow Bar & Grill is hopping tonight. It’s the weekend now, but it doesn’t have to be - this place gets filled to the brim most nights with rock & roll elite and degenerates of all descriptions. Louis watches these types of people milling around, dancing with one another, resplendent in paisley silks and glitter -  _ so much  _ glitter. He will never understand when or how or why it’s become so fashionable, but it’s heinous and he wants no part in it.

He decides this resolutely, watching a woman pass by their table with fine, white glitter smeared across her ample cleavage.

Louis is then snapped back to reality; to Barbara literally snapping her immaculately manicured fingers in front of his face across the table.

“Lou, darling, did you hear me? Have you heard from Ana?”

“Huh? Oh, no, I haven’t heard from her. I never hear from her… wouldn’t expect today to be any different, would I?”

“Hmm. I was just curious if your boss man had his grubby mitts on her yet.”

Louis scoffs, the thought still rolling around in the back of his mind like a mantra:  _ don’tletthemfindherdon’tletthemfindher. _

“She can manage on her own if they get to her. She’ll tear into Harvey plenty well like. She hates this shit.”

Zayn scoffs, then. He reaches for the cigarette placed haphazardly behind his ear.

“Does anyone  _ really  _ enjoy it, though?”

Louis considers this.

“I suppose not… but we’re all here, aren’t we?”

“Touche,” Zayn says through a puff of smoke. “Got me there, Tommo.”

Louis shakes his head and sips his drink. “Can we knock all this off, then? There’s been far too much ex-wife bollocks happening here for my taste. How was India, Harry?”

Harry is their little heartthrob - or was, years ago, when One Direction was still relevant. The caricature of himself that he played on television got all the romantic storylines, and if America still cares about any of them it’s certainly Harry. He’s the one the magazines still talk about like he matters - still young-looking (and  _ still young _ ), still beautiful, and still making music.

(Niall’s foray into country rock with his honky-tonk, cock-casting woman hardly counts as “still making music” because it’s so much harder for  _ Tiger Beat _ to sell that sort of thing. They can’t sell an Irishman in a rhinestone Nudie suit and his groupie bride-to-be and they can’t sell a broken family; the People In Charge are so much more useless than they think they are and pretend to be.)

Louis feels like he had just read something about Harry’s trip to India but he supposes it’s better to hear the stories from the man himself. Since he’s right here, and all.

Harry is more than happy to ramble on in his slow, soft voice about the months he just spent overseas. None of them were ever straight by any stretch of the imagination, but Harry has always been their true-blue hippie. He had followed the Beatles to India years before, and enjoyed it so much that he went back for a few months to drop acid and learn about Ayurveda and meditate or whatever it is that people have been doing when they go there. Harry seems very zen, so there’s probably something to all of that.

Louis is zoning out again, trying to find his own zen and pleased that the conversation has been redirected away from Briana and the kids. He is contemplating how difficult it would be to slide under the table and away from this outing without anyone noticing when he is faced with  _ another  _ pair of tits - this time, directly in his face.

“Hi Louis,” Eleanor says, possibly oblivious to the fact that she’s shoving her cleavage directly at Louis. Or maybe she isn’t; the groupies all seem to behave in their own mysterious ways. She looks over at the others, a little more shyly. “Hi guys. What’s going on here?”

“Oh, you know… reminiscing? Harry here was just telling us about his trip to India. Nell, you’ve met the lads, haven’t you? And Barbara?”

He realizes, then, that they probably shouldn’t talk too much about the reunion special lest things go horribly awry and the network has to can it. Should they actually even be out together right now? Harvey and Johnny are surely going to have something to say about this next week.

“How’d you do,” she says, softly, and doesn’t push the issue further. “Hi Barb. It’s been awhile.”

“Oh, shit, of course you two know each other,” Louis says before realizing what it sounds like he’s implying. Niall arches his eyebrows sort of incredulously and Louis feigns a dramatic cough. Eleanor throws her head back with a laugh and Barbara returns the gesture with a tight-lipped smile.

It’s unclear whether this is just a product of Barbara’s general demeanor or if she’s trying to shake off the whole making-plaster-molds-of-dicks persona she had cultivated during the previous decade. She is, after all, a kept woman now - but Louis has never asked and Barbara has never addressed it.

Never one to give the benefit of the doubt, Louis just assumes she’s being rude (never mind the fact that he had made the initial tasteless remark) and scoots over closer to Zayn in the circular booth. He pats the scratched vinyl on the seat beside him.

“D’you want to sit down, love?”

Her eyes light up, and Eleanor parks her bony ass next to Louis, her knee knocking into his. She is clearly delighted and being that she’s young enough to have been in the television show’s target demographic it makes sense, really. Additionally, Louis cannot recall a single time where he was this coherent while running around in public with her, so it’s a big night for Eleanor all around.

Louis slings an arm across her narrow shoulders while Eleanor leans across the table to catch up with Barbara. Zayn is quite accustomed to Eleanor turning up and to Eleanor’s general attachment to Louis but this is news to the other two. Harry and Niall exchange strange looks before training their eyes on Louis.

“What?” Louis asks, more bitingly than he means to. First the incessant ex-wife chatter, and now this. It’s really not his week, as far as uncomfortable conversations about his relationship status are concerned. He does not need this shit right now, or ever - especially not with Eleanor sitting right here with them. Maybe everyone is more inebriated than Louis initially thought.

Harry shrugs, ever casual. Niall’s face is more expressive but he just tells Louis, “Nothin’, mate.”

Louis frowns. “Lovely to see you two have maintained your psychic connection after all this time.”

Harry looks only slightly wounded by this. “Sorry, Lou. It’s just - like - how long…? This is new. It… it is new, right?”

“I haven’t a clue,” Louis tells him honestly. The last few months have been blurry and weird (as have the years since his divorce, generally, if Louis is being honest with himself) and he couldn’t give even an estimate of how long he and Eleanor have been effectively screwing around if he tried. He should probably stop mixing so many controlled substances at once. It can’t be good for his decrepit, aging body. It’s certainly not been great for his short-term memory. Or his long-term memory, for that matter. Does his brain even actually work any more? “Sincerely. Couldn’t put a date on it if I wanted. What’s the problem?”

Harry simply shrugs again. “No problem. ‘S just interesting, is all. Good for you.”

Louis grimaces. “Er, thanks. Is now really the best time for this? Does anyone need another drink?”

He flags down their server and orders another round of drinks for everyone if only to, once again draw attention away from himself. This is becoming quite the trend in Louis’ life and he’s not sure how to feel about it. There was a time when he wasn’t this withdrawn; this adverse to sharing secrets. But that was a long time ago, before everyone in the world could find out his personal business at the drop of a hat if he wasn’t careful.

The lads and the girls all chatter among themselves, a little less strained now with the addition of more alcohol in the mix. The server comes back with more drinks and perhaps this evening can be salvaged yet. Louis, at least, feels  _ great -  _ much looser and less awkward than he’s felt all evening. The proposed One Direction reunion has been off to a decidedly rocky start so it’s nice to actually feel sort of normal while in the presence of his former bandmates. Somewhere in the  back of his mind Louis hopes he isn’t going to have to be constantly drunk to get through the process of making this documentary before realizing he absolutely  _ is  _ going to have to be drunk the whole time if he plans on getting through it with what’s left of his sanity intact. He tries not to shudder at the thought.

Eleanor is handsy tonight, and more drunk than anyone else at the table which the others look past given her age and the fact that she’s tiny. It’s fine - they’ve had groupies behave much more scandalously while  _ not  _ under the influence - and she’s sort of dating Louis now so they all suppose being touchy-feely is par for the course at this point. The evening has carried on without incident despite her apparent inebriation, but when Eleanor elects to lean over the booth to the table behind them and attempt to show Alice Cooper and Micky Dolenz her tits Louis decides that it’s time for them to leave.

“Oh, Christ - c’mon, Nell,” he urges, decidedly drunk himself. “It’s time to go, darling. Sorry, mates. Lovely to see you two, by the way. Didn’t realize you were in town, Coop.”

Micky and Alice just cackle like hyenas in response. When Eleanor stubbornly refuses to budge from her seat Louis just climbs over her to get out of the booth before lifting her up and throwing her over his shoulder. Eleanor simply laughs and squeals in response.

“Put me  _ down,  _ Lou! I’m  _ fine,  _ I  _ swear!”  _ she shrieks, hammering her fists uselessly on his back. Louis sighs resignedly.

“Sorry, babe. It’s not happening. Let’s move.” He looks at the table and bids the lads farewell with a salute. “Sorry we’ve got to cut things short tonight. We’ll see you lot next week though, yeah?”

“Mmm, we’ve got to be heading out too,” Niall tells him after stealing a glance at his wristwatch. “We’ll leave with you.”

And they are quite a sight to see, all stumbling out of the Rainbow Bar together - Louis in his ridiculous leather pants with a scantily clad teenager literally slung over his shoulder; Niall with his arms around Plaster Caster Palvin and the both of them decked out in matching rhinestone-covered Western wear. They’re assaulted by paparazzi on their way out which is just great. Groovy, even. Louis hopes somewhere in his fuzzy brain that his lovely groupie girl has panties on tonight, because her ass is out for all the world to see and she is far too gone to notice or do anything about it. He pulls her tiny gold lame dress down haphazardly despite his apparent lack of free hands and scowls at the photographers.

Harvey and Johnny are going to kill them.

 

-

 

The first shoot day for the documentary is a waking nightmare. They’re on a soundstage at 6:30 in the morning and Louis has been drinking since he woke up an hour ago.  He wishes he was dead - or better yet, that they all were.

In a shocking turn of events, Liam is actually here with them. More shockingly - Liam came back from Canada with a wife and an infant son, news that would have been a nice surprise were they literally anyone and anywhere else. Louis is about to go off on a tirade about the struggles of being a parent now that they have been rudely cast back into the spotlight but is cut short by Johnny storming into the room. There’s a fire in his eyes behind his big, creepy glasses and Harvey is hot on his heels, looking equally irate.

The lads are seated around a rickety folding table with Barbara while PA’s bustle around them putting finishing touches on the set for their initial interviews. As Johnny approaches the table the unadulterated rage in his eyes only appears to intensify. He slaps a copy of the  _ National Enquirer  _ on the dirty tabletop and grimaces  _ aggressively,  _ somehow - a facial expression Louis had forgotten people were capable of actually making.

The cover of the  _ Enquirer,  _ for what it’s worth, is extremely unflattering. It’s a photo snapped outside of the Rainbow Bar last week - Niall is kissing Barbara’s neck sloppily and Louis is frowning with Eleanor slung unceremoniously over his shoulder. Her bare ass has been blurred over - badly - and the headline reads “THE ONLY DIRECTION THESE FORMER HEARTTHROBS ARE GOING IS DOWNHILL”. Louis sees, now, why Johnny and Harvey are so unhappy this morning but really they should have seen this coming from a mile away. It’s just more evidence that whoever green-lit this reunion special grossly underestimated how poorly behaved they all still are in adulthood. Really… this all on NBC, not them.

“What the hell is  _ wrong  _ with you idiots?!” Johnny demands, coffee sloshing over the rim of his paper cup. “What do you think this  _ is?!” _

“Looks to me like a photo of my girlfriend’s vagina, sir,” Louis deadpans.

“Oi, top of the morning, Johnny,” Niall chimes in. “It’s lovely to see you too - how was Florida?”

“Put a sock in it, Horan - I don’t wanna hear lip from ANY of you this morning. And I don’t want to see shit like this again, is that clear?” he gestures wildly at the cover of the  _ Enquirer  _ for emphasis. “And  _ what on earth  _ were you thinking, all going out together like that? We haven’t even announced the special yet but I suppose that cat’s out of the bag now, isn’t it? Veronica’s cleaning up this mess for you guys but if we have to put her on damage control again I’m canning every one of you.”

It’s probably an empty threat (Harvey and Johnny have both threatened to fire them all several times over the years), but there’s a whole lot less riding on them now than there was back in the day so it’s better to be safe than sorry. It’s far too early for any of them to fight back anyway. Instead there is a series of mumbled apologies while Liam sits in the midst of them looking bewildered. Barbara picks at her cuticles boredly, unfazed by the chaos unfolding around her. Harvey clears his throat from behind Johnny before dropping another sheaf of papers on the table before them.

“Here’s the shooting schedule for today. Give it a look over. Ben should be ready for you kids any minute.”

Johnny storms off to go talk to Ben, the director of the reunion special, and Harvey follows. Harry picks up the shooting schedules and passes them around the table, sighing heavily as he does so. No one says anything. They all read in a painful silence until Liam cracks and speaks up.

“This is all a bit mad,” he observes astutely. Louis snorts.

“What, Eleanor’s cunt on the front of the  _ Enquirer,  _ or the picture we’re supposed to be making?”

“Er… both, I reckon. ‘S been a long time since I’ve had to properly deal with any of this.”

“Must be nice living off the grid, like,” Zayn quips. Liam just shrugs.

“Harry!” Ben chirps from across the way. “You ready? You’re up first!”

The soundstage itself is darling, really. They’ve done it up for the occasion with a little couch and some houseplants to create a false sense of intimacy. Take a seat with One Direction and learn all about their easily-digestible, safe-for-work lives. They live only to entertain and be charming, not to get absolutely shithammered and have sloppy, dirty sex with teenagers in skimpy gold lame dresses. Sorry, Harvey and Johnny. Sorry, Veronica.

Louis takes a swig from his paper cup, which is more whiskey than coffee at this point. He hopes everyone continues to politely disregard the stench of it. He feels like the human embodiment of a car accident and says a silent thanks to some god, somewhere that he doesn’t have to be the one to talk first. He doesn’t think he has it in him.

Zayn taps his shin with the toe of his boot under the table and says, “you’re not slick, you tosser.”

Louis just scoffs before turning his attention to Liam. “How’s fatherhood treating you, Payno?”

Liam lights up then, more than happy to gush about his wife Cheryl and their infant, Bear. It seems that holing up in the forest somewhere has really done a number on him - Liam was once the straightest of the lot of them, and often regarded as the leader of the pack. Now he’s the type of person who names his children after animals or plants and gets his kicks writing songs and doing mushrooms in relative obscurity with his wife, who is evidently also a musician. It looks good on him. He’s a lot more laid back than he used to be.

Liam could probably talk forever about his new hippy-dippy family life up in Canada, but eventually Ben calls for quiet on the set as he’s got Harry posed how he wants him. Harry has always been good at playing nice for the cameras but he speaks  _ so slowly _ and his interview feels like it drags on forever. He’s so  _ genuine _ and takes his sweet time giving thoughtful answers to Ben’s various probing questions. It makes Louis want to barf, but that could just be the whiskey-for-breakfast talking.

“Champions of the group have suggested that One Direction helped shape the youth culture of the last decade… some even take that a step further, going as far as to say you’ve helped change the world and the way we collectively consume media,” Ben says off-camera from his seat beside the director of photography. “What do you have to say to that, Harry?”

Louis watches Harry laugh easily from his vantage point at the folding table in the back of the room and rolls his eyes wordlessly. It goes unnoticed by his bandmates but Barbara sees and offers him a sharp elbow to the ribs in return. She mouths the words  _ be nice  _ before reaching down to dig a nail file out of her purse on the floor.

Louis isn’t one to take orders (particularly not from  _ groupies _ ) but they’re all a little whipped by Plaster Caster Palvin. It comes with her legacy, he supposes. In any case, she has a cast of Louis’ dick laying around somewhere and he listens to her, averting his eyes from the set and fidgeting with his paper cup instead.

“One Direction… well. One Direction changed things for all of us, certainly,” Harry says to Ben. “It turned everything in  _ my _ life on its head. And, sure - that type of television had never been done before… but to say we changed the  _ world  _ is a bit presumptuous, isn’t it? The world will keep turning with or without us. One Direction is just a small piece of the greater cosmic puzzle… as it were.”

And speaking of the cosmos, Louis is suddenly very pleased that NASA finally managed to put people in space just a few years before because he can finally fulfill his dream of launching himself into the sun. Or perhaps he could launch Harry there instead - none of them have any business acting this  _ delighted  _ to be talking about One Direction again and Louis wants to throttle him.

Harry’s preliminary interview ends like that - simply and without incident. When Ben calls out, “cut!” they can practically hear the whole crew let out a collective sigh of relief. One Direction were notoriously difficult to work with in their heyday and given all of their unsavory adult behaviors Harvey and Johnny had prepped the film crew for the worst. But Ben asks for Liam next and his interview is similarly smooth - there’s no backtalk, the lads and Barbara are all keeping quiet and out of the way, and Louis has kept his sour facial expressions mostly to himself. It’s unprecedented, really.

After dismissing Liam from the set, Ben stands up and stretches. He had worked on several of their later episodes and is clearly pleased that everyone has been so easy-going up until this point. He addresses the (former) band, Barbara, and the crew with a grin: “it’s looking great so far, guys. And can I just say -  _ thank you  _ for being willing to work with me this morning. I know it’s not easy to just jump back into the saddle like this but it’s all moving along  _ so  _ quickly.” He glances down at the clipboard in his hand before carrying on. “Looks like we’ve got one more interview to knock out before we break for lunch… Niall, you’re up!”

Barbara trails behind Niall as he makes his way onto the set. She dutifully sits beside him on the soft periwinkle sofa and they both look ridiculous as ever in matching fringed outfits. Ben gapes for a moment before regaining his composure and clearing his throat.

“Hey… it’s Barbara, right? I  _ love  _ that you’re here and that you’re so supportive, but we’re scheduled for just Niall’s opening interview today. Looks like I don’t have yours til…” Ben flips through the papers on his clipboard quickly. “...Tuesday! Next Tuesday. Veronica should have sent the schedules over to you guys… but, anyway. If I could have you step down for me, hon, that would be great.”

“This is fine, thanks,” Barbara says simply. Niall just shrugs.

“Don’t see why she can’t just chat with us now,” he agrees.

This should be unsurprising but somehow Ben still appears to be at a loss. He looks to Harvey and Johnny wide-eyed; Johnny stares back, visibly exasperated and Harvey just throws his arms up in defeat. Separating Niall and Barbara is a lost cause and Ben should surely know better, Louis thinks. He watches them go back and forth with a morbid fascination, suddenly more engaged than he’s been all day.

“Oh… kay!” Ben finally concedes. “Let’s just get this show on the road then.”

It’s not unlike a scene from the Beatles’ last film,  _ Let it Be.  _ Niall answers Ben’s questions to the best of his ability and Barbara sits by the wayside like a dead-eyed Yoko Ono in cowboy boots. She interjects from time to time with her own thoughts, or when she feels like something needs to be elaborated on. It’s fucking weird, and Louis is obsessed with them. Why are they like this? Is it a sex thing? Whatever the reason -  _ this  _ is the sort of nonsense Louis signed onto this godforsaken documentary to see.

To his credit, Ben keeps his cool and does his best to pretend like this is normal and casual. They don’t just hand out Emmy’s to anybody and it’s common knowledge that Ben sees himself as something of an auteur. He works around Niall and Barbara’s codependency until he can’t and then he just lets the interview keep going. It’s fine. They’ll find a way to sell it in post.

When they break for lunch, Harvey and Johnny both step out for a meeting and it’s all downhill from there. Louis polishes off his hip flask while in the toilets and Zayn fucks off to god knows where, only to turn back up on the soundstage twenty minutes later than he’s supposed to. The room’s heavy metal doors scrape open and shut upon his return, despite the sign that one of the PA’s had hung up instructing passersby to do exactly the opposite because there’s a shoot in progress. Cool, collected Emmy-hopeful auteur Ben Winston, already on edge while trying to wrangle an interview out of Louis, looks like he is going to fly off the handle.

“Cut!” He shouts, turning to glare daggers at Zayn while he not-so-stealthily slides into the folding chair beside Liam in the back of the room. “Where’ve you been, Zayn?”

“Lost track of time,” Zayn tells him, but doesn’t volunteer any other information. Ben closes his eyes and, if the movements of his mouth are any indication, silently counts to ten.

“Look, I-- urgh. It doesn’t matter. Please don’t disappear again,” he says exasperatedly before turning back to Louis. “Sorry, Lou. Let’s try this again. Are we rolling?”

The DP gives him a thumbs up and says, “rolling.”

“Alright - action!” Ben waits a beat. “So, Louis, you had a wife and child before you even auditioned to be on the show; how did your family factor into the tumultuous world of One Direction?”

Louis groans.

“Ben, mate - my ex wife would like nothing more than to literally, actually murder me,” he says plainly. “Kids - like teenage girls - sent letters saying they wished she would die to our home address. When the group really took off we feared for the safety of our kids, so when Ana and I split she bolted and took the kids back to England. They still all go by her maiden name.”

Ben furrows his eyebrows. “Lou… buddy. That doesn’t answer the question at all. We can’t put that on TV.”

“It does answer you, though. You’ve asked what effect One Direction had on my family, haven’t you?”

“Can you please tell us  _ any  _ other thing about your family? Anything at all?” Ben looks at him with imploring, desperate eyes.

Louis heaves a great sigh. “I don’t know what else you want me to tell you. The death threats were a highlight of our marriage, you know. A highlight of my career, even.”

“I can tell you’re very proud, but will you humor me and tell us  _ any other story.” _

It’s not a question - it’s a statement. Ben is usually not this feisty. Louis is impressed and accepts the challenge, launching into a series of horror stories about his decidedly rocky marriage with Briana - the first time he had extra-curricular intercourse with a fan on the road, the gory details of his daughter Johanna’s at-home birth, the day that Briana finally served him divorce papers.

This goes on for what feels like an eternity. Ben repeatedly interjects with strategic questions in the hopes that he can get the conversation on track well enough that they can frankenstein something useful out of it in the cutting room. Louis manages to deflect most of them. The entire process is surely taking years off both their lives but neither is willing to back down, resulting in a stalemate of boring interview questions and wildly inappropriate tales centered around various bodily fluids and divorce court.

Far behind the cameras, Harry lights a cigarette which he shares with Niall. He covers his mouth to stifle a cackle, amused by Louis’ attitude problem despite himself. Liam seems far less pleased by this development in the interview process, and Zayn is just twitchy. It’s probably fine though.

The situation with Louis continues to escalate with no sign of stopping until, once again, Ben calls out, “cut!” Cool, collected Emmy-hopeful auteur Ben Winston appears on the verge of tears.

“Thank you, Louis,” he says, flatly. “That’s, ah… that’s enough for today. Thanks.”

Louis tips an imaginary hat to him and steps down off the soundstage. Ben sucks in a deep breath and checks his watch before turning to face the others. “Alright, well… sorry for the delay there, gentlemen. Zayn, could I get you to come up here, please?”

Zayn’s interview goes about as well as Louis’, which is to say - it doesn’t. He is very clearly on  _ something  _ although what that something is isn’t immediately obvious. He’s quite fidgety, though, and can’t seem to make himself comfortable on the velvet sofa. Ben’s patience is obviously wearing thin and he eventually elects to get on the set and position Zayn himself. Gripping him roughly by the shoulder, Ben asks, “Are you going to be able to do this today, Zayn?”

Zayn waves him off and insists that he’s fine. “Let’s just get this shit over with.”

So Ben shouts, “action!” and tries to get Zayn to tell him anything coherent - he asks about life before the television show, about his family, about his admittedly less-than-thriving solo career. Zayn mostly just talks about his questionable relationship with former go-go dancer Perrie Edwards (who was  _ sixteen  _ when they got married) and his new, equally as questionable relationship with model Gigi Hadid (who is, at least, of age). At his wits’ end, Ben just lets him talk. They’ll reshoot when he’s sober and everything will be fine. Probably. Maybe.

(Zayn is prone to making tasteless comments regardless of what’s in his system, so - maybe it won’t be fine at all, but this hope is the only thing that’s allowing Ben to hold it together right now.)

Harvey and Johnny turn back up somewhere around the end of Zayn’s interview. The scrape of the metal doors once again startles and frustrates Ben, resulting in a reflexive scream. He really, seriously cannot help it. It’s been a long day. But the surprise arrival of their bosses is really for the best because it allows Ben to cut Zayn’s interview short before he can say anything else weird and incriminating.

He shepherds Zayn over to the folding table in the back of the room where Harvey and Johnny are already lording over the others and giving them another earful about being on their best behavior for the rest of the shoot. It seems that Harvey and Johnny will never not regard them as the rambunctious teenagers they used to be. It would be more humiliating if they hadn’t all grown up to be tremendous fuckups.

“We get the picture, thanks,” Louis tells them flippantly, even so.

Harvey points a finger at him. “You’ve  _ really  _ got to play nice in all this, Tomlinson. You’re on thin ice since you made the cover of the  _ Enquirer  _ with that half-dressed girl. And Ana’s going to be here next week to do a shoot, so. Think about that.”

Louis blanches. “Excuse me?”

“Did you not hear me?” Harvey asks crossly. “Ana is going to be here on Monday. She seems delighted to do the project so we really need you keep it together for once in your life.”

He’s too shocked for a smart-alecky response, or any response at all, really. Louis just nods dumbly and says, “alright, yeah.”

There’s more talk about guests and schedules and god knows what else but Louis is so inside his own head at this point that he misses most of it.  _ Briana is doing the documentary _ . His ex-wife, mother of the children he hasn’t seen in three years, the woman who wishes he was dead and has threatened physical violence against him more than once - is doing the documentary. And is, evidently,  _ delighted  _ to be a part of it.

Is he in the Twilight Zone? Has Louis finally died of alcohol poisoning and gone to hell?

Is she bringing the children with her?

Louis leaves in a panic as soon as they’re dismissed by Harvey and Johnny. When he gets home, he calls Eleanor. They've got a lot to talk about. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope y'all are having as much fun with this as i am. 
> 
> fun fact despite attending film school i know very little about 70s video tech so i'm keeping the shoots as vague as possible srry
> 
> xoxoxo


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